


The Further I Fall, I'm Beside You

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Series: I Won't Let You Fall Apart [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, F/M, Rough Sex, hand around the throat, hand over mouth and nose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: They're in this together.





	The Further I Fall, I'm Beside You

Moments pass, breath is pulled in and pushed out, and legs shake.

 

Sam is draped heavily over your back, grounding you with his mass, pulling and pushing his own breath in time with yours. He shifts his weight, swaying from foot to foot, moving you with him. Then he says your name.

 

You don’t want to answer his questioning tone, don’t want to leave the warm pocket of salvation you’ve created once he finally, _finally_ crossed your threshold. You curl inward, burrow deeper into the cushions.

 

He says your name again, shifts again, rolls to stand at his full height, dragging his fingertips over your rapidly cooling skin as he goes. “Hey… You okay?” he asks, pushing your hair out of the way so he can see of your face what isn’t buried in sofa.

 

You nod but don’t make any attempt to stand or retreat from the cushions.

 

“Stand up, babe,” he says. “So I can help you get dressed, cleaned up.”

 

You reluctantly, slowly obey. “I don’t wanna get cleaned up, Sammy,” you mutter as he wraps you in the couch throw.

 

Your living room is a disaster area. You just want to run away with him, bury yourselves in each other, forget the world.

 

Sam dips his head and kisses you gentle and quiet. “Don’t wanna get in the shower with me?” he whispers against your lips, rubs the tip of your nose with his. “Let me get you all soaped up and warm?”

 

You shiver in his arms and under his lips. “That sounds nice,” you say.

 

You want to pretend a little longer anyway – pretend that he isn’t leaving, that you can make this work, that he still loves you.

 

Sam fastens his pants enough to gracefully lead you to your bathroom. It’s your favorite place in your open cabin. There’s a skylight that lets in sunshine or starlight, depending on the time of day. You love your large soaking tub and walk-in steam shower.

 

You stand small and quiet as Sam turns the knobs on hot, tests the water with his fingers. “I miss your shower, how it heats up so quickly.” The way he speaks in present tense isn’t lost on you.

 

He turns to face you and his eyes are getting hungry again. He holds you in place with his gaze as he unbuttons his shirt, drops it to the floor.

 

“Can I take your boots off?” you ask, shrugging out of the throw and waiting for permission.

 

“Yeah,” he answers, unbuttoning his jeans and letting them fall.

 

You settle on the floor at his feet, let your eyes and fingers roam over his thighs and knees then set to work on his heavy boots. The laces are thick and knotted twice so it takes a bit of doing to get them loose. Sam is patient above you, stroking your hair. You can feel the heft of his gaze bearing down on you as you work.

 

He lifts one foot at a time to let you pull his boots and socks from his feet then kicks his jeans and boxer briefs aside. “Stand up,” he says, his voice firm, calm, and quiet.

 

You obey, again, standing so close you can see each ring of color edging into the next in his kaleidoscope eyes. You breathe him in, will him to touch you and he does.

 

“C’mon,” he sighs, clasping your hand and pulling you under the water with him.

 

He was right; the water’s nice and hot. Yet another reason you love this room more than any other. You let the water soak your hair, soothe your skin. Sam wraps himself almost entirely around and over you. His body, every inch, is hard and hot and you feel like you’re melting.

 

“Gonna get you nice and clean,” he murmurs in your ear as he reaches for your body wash. Without a cloth or a loofah, he covers you with the viscous liquid, squirting from the bottle to make patterns over your breasts and belly and hips. Then he lets the bottle drop to the stone floor and uses his hands to lather the slippery fragrance everywhere.

 

“You’ve gotten thin,” he says, running his hands over your sudsy rib cage, the flare of your hips, and between your legs. You whine and arch your back, pressing your ass against his thighs. “I’m here now.” He nuzzles your wet head, places a kiss there. “I’ll take care of you.”

 

Sam leaves not even one millimeter of your body untouched. He cups you between your legs, grinds his heel over the taut flesh that hugs your clit then curls two fingers _just_ inside.

 

You hiss because you’re still sensitive and throbbing from him fucking you over the sofa not 20 minutes ago. “Sam,” you whisper, turn your head to bury your sight in his chest.

 

Your hips undulate all on their own, ride his hand, and he hums, tucks your face further into him as he dips his chin over your head. “That’s a good girl,” he whispers back at you and lets you get off in your own time.

 

After your shower, you start to dress, but Sam stops you with a shake of his head. “No need,” he says, crossing your bedroom, his hardening cock weaving as it rises. “On the bed.”

 

Your breath shakes as you drop your tank top and do as your told. “How do you want me?” you ask, barely looking over your shoulder as he stalks behind you.

 

“On your back.” He watches you follow orders as he rounds the bed, pumping himself slowly. “You make me so hard,” he says, as if it’s a crime. His tone makes you clench and hold your breath.

 

He climbs onto the bed to kneel beside you, stroking himself over your chest with one hand and touching you with the other. “Do you know how much I want you? All the time?” He rubs precum along your bottom lip and orders you to open your mouth. The next 30 seconds are spent on your back with Sam’s dick in your mouth. You wonder just how tense he is, if he’s about to straddle you, fuck your throat, or if he’s just getting his dick wet. You don’t care, though; you just want him.

 

“I can use you six ways to Sunday and still want you, still want to touch you and feel you.” He groans and pulls out of your mouth, and you gasp for air.

 

“Sam, I-”

 

“Don’t say anything yet,” he says, kneeing his way between your thighs, letting you relax back into the mattress, touch his chest and shoulders – all the places you miss and need. “Just let me get this out.”

 

He’s staring into you, guiding himself to work his hard thickness inside your wet, swollen hole. ““I think about you _every day_ , but I have to keep you safe.” He pulls back slow once he’s all the way in then thrusts hard and deep.

 

You huff a breath of air on that deep thrust, you whine a little and wrap your legs around his hips. “I’m listening,” you say, holding his gaze just like you think he needs you to, like you need to.

 

“We can’t keep doing this,” he says, slowly, deeply fucking into you hard enough that you need to reach back and brace your hands against the headboard. Sam tries to remedy the situation by shifting on his knees, grabbing your shoulder to hold you in place, heaving the concentration of his power with tight thrusts into such a small space.

 

He keeps your thighs open with his own and starts to rub circles over your clit. Your breath his heavy as you let go the headboard with one of your hands to hold his wrist as he twists it to release your shoulder and clasp around your throat.

 

“I can’t get enough of you ever.” His voice is desperate and eyes pleading. You’ve never seen him like this. Your skin ripples with the thought of exactly what’s going through his mind with the circular thoughts he’s vocalizing.

 

He tightens his hand around your throat just enough to let you feel the pressure. Sam is practiced at this game, the one you love the best, and he would never hurt you. The simple sensation, the knowledge that this man, this killer of dangerous things, is holding your life’s breath in his hands.

 

But that’s the game you always play, no matter the rules. You and Sam have always skirted the edge of reality, always played fast and loose with sensation and feeling, with your emotions. It’s a heady game, this one.

 

He says your name as he speeds his thrusts, angles his hips to hit you where your most sensitive and vulnerable. “Sam,” you whisper. “Please.”

 

He looks you right in the eye as he shifts his hand higher, palms your mouth and chin and jaw, pinches your nose with his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger. His thrusts are steady and deep and you gasp under his hand with each one, pulling in very little air, making yourself high.

 

“We can’t keep doing this,” he repeats, dropping to his forearm and burying his face in your neck.

 

Your vision starts to dim just as you come, clamping around him and making him follow.


End file.
